


Portrait of a Florentine Youth

by grizzly_bear_bane



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Angst and Romance, Arthur is a bird in a cage, Eames sets him free, Historical Young Male Courtesan, Italian Renaissance Era, M/M, Non-consensual Ownership and Sexual Servitude, Nude model!Arthur, Painter!Eames, Past Underaged, Prompt Fill, Renaissance Era, Secret Forbidden Affair, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur belongs to one of the most powerful men in all of Florence. Coveted, pined for, killed for, this boy is the one all rich men dream of having.</p>
<p>And right now, he’s lying nude in Eames’ studio, waiting to be posed and painted for his master's commission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this simple prompt fill turned into...all of this. XD 
> 
> Special thanks as always to tamat9 for her limitless research and help and to velificatio as well! <3
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Those lovely laughing eyes  
Have carried my heart to Paradise,  
Where, Love, I saw how you hide  
There, among your ardent fires.  
O lovely shining eyes  
That snatched my heart away,  
How, say – does such sweet power move?

_― Angelo Poliziano_

 

++

+

 

 ** _Ferrara, Italy – 1483_**  

 

In his room in the tower of the old palazzo, Arthur arranged his books and quills the way he did everyday before the servants arrived to dress him for supper with his master.

Arthur had been told that today was his sixteenth birthday. His master would return from the city with gifts and spend the evening with him. Arthur could not stand to wait another heartbeat. From the day Arthur had been brought here, he’d had a birthday celebrated on this day. For what reason his master had picked such a day, Arthur did not know, nor did he care in the face of treats and an entire evening of Guidobaldo d'Este's attention.

He hummed, wishing he could sing while he was dressed in dark tights and a short violet overgown belted over his doublet and his hair combed. Thanking them with a quiet word and a smile, he hurried to pick the book he wished to read as the sun set beyond his one small window.

Arthur’s heart raced when he heard footsteps up the stairs. He would tell his master the joke he’d overheard from the servants. He could not wait to laugh with him.

But when the doors opened, it was not the jovial old man who entered, but his wife. And her eldest son. Both of their eyes were red and teary, but their normal scowls were harder set as they looked down upon him.

Arthur bowed quickly, frowning. “Signora, is master not coming?” Dread filled Arthur as he glanced from her to her son. “Is he…sick, signora?” He clutched his book tighter, praying that was not so.

“Guidobaldo is dead,” she bit out at him. “Killed.”

Arthur stared at her and her son for a long time, not understanding. “No?” His chest seized suddenly, leaving him breathless. “No, he is coming back from the city with… He…he said so to me… Signora Magdalena, how can this be?”

“I loathe to speak to you," she spat, "to even look at you, boy. Why would I waste breathe to come to this room of  _sin_  and lie to you about my own husband?” Her son placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to quiet her.

The book clattered to the floor. Arthur could only hold himself as he began to crumble from within.

"Mother," the son whispered, glancing over his shoulder at the opened doors, "please compose yourself."

"I will not! I have held my tongue for seven years, Pietro!" She shook off her son's touch. New tears streamed down her face. “So many nights I slept alone because he was up here with  _you_ , Arthur, doing…only god knows what," she hissed, stepping closer. "He could have been spending that time with me, but no. All these gifts, all of these clothes and jewels, and  _books_  that he poured his money into for  _you_ , instead of to me and to his sons. Well, boy, his debts have caught up to him, and now yours will catch up to you as well.”

Arthur collapsed, sobbing, still in disbelief. “Signora, please! I mourn with you and your sons! I loved him too!” He tried to crawl to her but her son pulled her back several steps. He weeped into his hands. “How can he be gone? Who would take him away?”

Through his tears, Arthur saw a tall stranger appear, led forward by Guidobaldo's second eldest son. 

Pietro looked to his brother with worried eyes before glancing at the man. He bowed his head. “Signore Borso de' Medici," he greeting him nervously. "As head of this house now, my offer to you is this: Our families have never held animosity towards one another. Even on this day, I have told my family not to seek vengeance or hold contempt in their hearts. So, please. The boy and all that you see here is yours, if you would but allow for my mother and our household to remain here. This boy is educated. My father saw to that himself. But if an educated boy is not what you... desire, then... as you can see, he is also quite young and... healthy.”

“Certainly, young Pietro," the man said, resting a large, heavy hand on his shoulder. "Those lovely chairs and table in the dining hall, sell them as well. That should settle what is left of the debt owed to me.”

Borso walked forward. A much younger man than the widow and Arthur’s master, his thick, black robes billowed like smoke from a funeral pyre as he moved. He took Arthur by the arm and made him stand. “Hush, boy. Dry your tears.”

“Who are you?” Arthur tried to escape his grasp but the man was as strong as his voice was stern. He stilled when Borso raised his hand in warning. 

Borso rubbed the tears from Arthur's face as he spoke softly. “You are a pretty one, but you will not be spoiled and pampered the way your former master handled you.”

“No! Let go of me! Pietro, Signora Magdalena, please!” Arthur paled, seeing the widow and her sons handing his books, his quills, and all his treasured things to servants that carted them away.

 

The carriage ride to Florence with his new master was silent. The backs of his hands were red and stinging now, punished whenever Arthur could not contain his mourning.

The man sat across from him with a face that looked starved of smiles and laughter. His eyes bore into Arthur, chaining his very soul in iron shackles.

Borso de’ Medici’s palazzo was grand, but barren of the life and joy that had filled Guidobaldo’s home, even if these halls and rooms were filled with rich furniture, tapestries, and sculptures. If Arthur could just return home, plead his case with the widow to allow him to remain in that small room, to maintain all the happiness and freedom he'd had, it would be heaven.

This was Hell.

His hand was smacked again for daring to reach out to touch one marble statue.

Arthur sat with Borso at the end of the long dining table, waiting for the servants to bring them their meals. He watched Borso under his lashes, trying his best not to be afraid. Borso was not unappealing to look at, with his soft brown hair and grey eyes. The hands he clasped on the table were big and heavily ringed. His clothes were dark and modest, however. Not colorful at all the way Guidobaldo was with his own dress. Arthur wondered if the man even own a suit that was not black.

His heart stopped when Borso at last caught him staring.

The man's smile was empty, seemingly forced. "There are mice in the dungeon that are less terrified than you. Although once, I took my horse out hunting and it began to storm. You may have had serious competition with that frightened beast."

Arthur was relieved when his quiet laugh slipped from him without effort. He rested his elbows on the table, trying to relax, but his words were still careful. "Then I think I shall like to meet this horse, signore."

Borso frowned. "I put him down shortly after. My new steed cowers at nothing. Not even me."

Arthur stuttered, his smile vanishing. "Oh..." Would he meet the same end if he too could not be pleasing to this man? 

Borso sat forward. "You are still upset?"

Arthur nodded. "I feel my life is barren now. When I close my eyes, I can almost hear him sing to me."

"There is no room here for such sentiment."

His eyes stung. "I'm sorry."

Borso waved his hand, dismissing Arthur's apology. "It does not matter. You will adapt to me quickly enough. I do not permit conflict or weakness in my house."

Arthur did not know what to say to that, so he kept silent, nervous as Borso stared at him with a scowl.

"He must have extraordinarily spoiled you," Borso mused when the servants entered. "He was old, and from what his sons have told me, the nights he spent with you had you wailing in pain. I am a younger man with so much more at my disposal to keep you content, yet still you mourn him. Silly boy." He shrugged. "Well, at least that speaks to your loyalty. I expect the same from you. Now eat." 

Arthur reluctantly picked up his spoon as the man still stared. He tasted it. It wasn't bland like the soups at his former home. He hummed his approval and smiled brightly at the servants. "Thank you, madam. Please tell the cooks that this is very good."

The servants looked to Borso who glared at Arthur. 

He was disciplined again. 

When he could not stomach any more food, Arthur kept his hands under the table in his lap, massaging them. “Signore?”

“Yes, boy?”

“Where are my books and clothes? Was my writing table brought here?”

Borso chuckled at him, his attractive, warm smile surprising Arthur, fooling him enough that his heart raced. He smiled back, until the man spoke words that cut sharper than the knife he stuck in his pork. “Absolutely not, Arthur. This is my house, not his.” He chuckled again. “Although, his house was about to be mine as well today, but Magdalena's son was able to settle his father’s debts rather quickly. I suppose it is better for them to live in an empty house than to have no house at all. Thank that old man for having such… _delicious_ , expensive tastes.”

Arthur fought back more tears, refusing to be punished again. “But…they were my books, my most treasured gifts. What will I do without my books, signore?”

Borso stopped eating and sat down his knife. He leaned across the table, glaring. “Did your former master allow you to argue with him, little boy? You sit so poised and are so articulate and yet all I hear from your lips is disobedience.”

“Signore, I mean no disrespect but those few books were harmless. A candle without a wick is useless, and I without something meaningful in my hands will too be as idle and—”

Borso's chair screeched when he stood. He walked around the table and leaned over the back of Arthur’s chair, his hands on Arthur’s arms like more iron shackles on his spirit. “You will never be useless here. Trust me," he said gently, rubbing Arthur's arms. "You will have enough wick and enough substance in your hands in my bed, where your priorities ought to lie. I know the pit of sin from which Guidobaldo plucked you as a child. I know what is in you. Not a mind, not even a soul, but a body built to please me. That is all. You will soon come to understand that and respect your place."

He pressed his lips to Arthur's cheek, whispering still. "And if you think you can carry yourself here the way you did in Guidobaldo's home, I will crush your little beak and wings and pluck out every single feather from you, my little sparrow. Now finish your supper or see it given to my dogs. We are not wasteful people here. Yes?”

"Yes, signore."

“Good.” He kissed Arthur’s hair and continued to stand behind his chair, his hands heavy and close to Arthur’s neck. He smiled again. "I'm beginning to like you already.”

 

+

++ 

 

**_Florence, Italy – 1485_ **

 

Eames groaned to himself as he rifled through his cluttered studio, searching for a chemise that was not yet dirtied with charcoal smudges and paint.

The last thing he wanted to do was trek across the city to his patron’s party. In the months he’d spent painting one fresco after another in the man’s home, simply walking into Borso de’ Medici’s palazzo felt like walking into hell, or a monastery, or a dungeon, or all three!

He’d refused this party, but Medici had insisted Eames be honored for his work, and when a Medici insists anything, Eames knew there could be no further argument.

Eames fought the urge to check himself in the first mirror he came across as he stepped into the massive palazzo. His simple shirt, leather and boots made him look more like a mercenary come to kill than a painter come to dine. He would not blend in here anyways. Eames was not a vain man but he knew beauty and there was none here save for himself in the clusters of noblemen admiring both Eames and his work.

“Young Master Leonello Eames!” Borso walked to him with opens arms and kissed Eames’ cheeks. “You are late,” he muttered, squeezing Eames’ arms, “but never mind that now. Gentlemen,” he called to his guests, “Master Eames’ finest work coincidentally can be found in my dining hall. Come. Master Eames, you must be starving.”

He was. Eames could not remember the last time he’d been in the presence of such a spread of foods and wines.

The candelabras illuminated the ceiling. The men all gasped in awe at his skill and fawned over him incessantly.

Eames raced through each cup of wine, needing it to quell his headache and speed the evening along. He seemed not to be the only one. Unfortunately, he handled wine better than the men who stumbled and slurred as their loud chatter nearly drowned out the music.

He frowned at the musicians when one after the other stumbled through the piece they played before they stopped. The chatter in the hall died down as well.

Borso stood from where he sat at the table beside Eames. “I see our feast was too loud for my young one. Come down. Join us, my Arthur.”

Eames followed the gazes of the men around them to where the youth rubbed his eyes at the top of the stairs. His awe was much more subtle than theirs. Indeed, this was not the first time Eames had seen the quiet boy though the sightings were quite brief.

Arthur was cloistered to say the least, like a bird in a small cage. Always silent and always sad, even when he would laugh at Borso’s occasional joke. Several times Eames had seen him following Borso to the door when the man left and would see Arthur greet him with a kiss and hand to remove Borso’s cloak when he returned. The boy never seemed to venture out with him, but from Eames’ view on the scaffolding, Arthur clearly wanted to go outside. Eames would glimpse the boy spying at the city before the doors were closed, or see him lost in his thoughts by a windowsill, gazing out at a world he could not access. 

At least a dozen times, Eames had heard them make love from where he'd been painting. For as passionate as their lovemaking had sounded echoing off the stone corridor, Arthur still looked sad come the next morning. A few times, he’d heard Borso shout at him, a feat Eames had thought to be impossible, at least in his own mind. What mistake could such a lovely boy make to insight that kind of rage, he’d wonder before returning to his painting. 

It was rumored that Borso de’ Medici had killed the boy’s former guardian just so that he could have Arthur for himself. Eames could certainly believe that. 

Only twice did Eames catch the boy peeking up at him from behind a statue or from a doorway, watching him paint with a wide, curious stare.

Both times had ended in swift scoldings.

Eames had sworn to himself that he would never dare look upon Arthur again if it could spare the boy's hands from Borso's punishments.

But it had been a promise not easily kept.  

In Arthur’s very short sleeveless golden overgown and his white doublet and tights, with his youthful face and tumbling curls, he appeared as if he’d come to life from one of the images of the angels on ceiling. The loose back of the overgown swayed above his knees as he descended the stairs with grace. Everything about his manner was light, as if he would shatter with a harder step.

“My boy turned eighteen today,” Borso announced, his eyes on Arthur’s lean wool-clad legs when he made Arthur sit in his lap. His arms circled Arthur's belted waist possessively as the men looked on. “As a gift, he convinced me to stay up with him and watch the sun rise this morning. He is still tired, aren’t you, sparrow?”

Arthur yawned behind his hand. He held Eames' stare but soon dropped his eyes. He took Borso's hand and laced their fingers. “May I eat too, master?”

“No." Borso freed his hand to rest both on Arthur's arms. "Tell me what your chaperone gave you for your birthday. What was your request?”

Arthur's shoulders tensed. He fixed the thread in his sleeve. “I asked Gianfrancesco to read to me.”

Borso frowned at the boy’s simple words. He sighed. “You and your books, boy. When will it ever cease?”

“Forgive me, master. I had only thought it would be allowed under the circumstance. I will not ask him again.”

Arthur’s voice carried a surprising weight to it; solid, more milk than cream, compared to the other men’s boys and their feathery affectations. He sat in Borso’s lap with grace and calm reserved for men much older than he.

There was a whole other world inside that pretty head, Eames could tell. One contemplating matters perhaps far beyond this party and its guests. Eames watched him as a plump man with crumbs clinging to his doublet reached across the table and slipped a ring on Arthur’s finger. Arthur himself gave him a flash of a smile but only spared the ring a single glance before his eyes returned to the musicians.

Borso caught Arthur’s hand and examined the ring critically, eyeing it before eyeing the man and Arthur both. He arched his brow.

The man leaned forward, glancing between Eames and Borso. He licked his lips. “I have heard rumor that you share whenever the price is right. Might I make my bid?”

Borso huffed and slipped the ring back off of Arthur’s finger. He tossed it across the table back to the offended man. “Not in this lifetime would I give my dog a treat when he has not first performed a trick for me. So far, your only trick has been to make my money disappear. You give me nothing but headaches, Fiorentino. And don’t insult me in front of my guest.”

Borso’s words were punctuated with his smacking Arthur’s hand away from the apple he’d tried to take off of a platter. He chuckled at Arthur’s blush and massaged Arthur’s hand, speaking to Eames. “Even though my boy knows that I forbid it, I still found a book under his pillow this afternoon, so no supper for him tonight.”

Eames couldn’t comment. It was too absurd, but what happened next perplexed him more so.

Arthur was still massaging the sting out of his hand when he turned a little to his master to speak.

“Signore?” he said to Borso, but his eyes were on Eames for a moment as he formed his request. “You do not permit me to read or write anymore, but would it not please you if I learned to play an instrument like those gentleme—”

Borso hushed Arthur as the boy were a crying infant. He rubbed Arthur’s legs. “I enjoy the feel of these tights on your skin, Arthur. More of this kind I will buy you. Say, Master Eames, would your schedule permit your to complete another commission for me?”

Eames fought the urge to laugh in his face. The sooner he could be free of this palazzo, the better. “Forgive me, signore, but I—”

“I wish to see this…heavenly creature in my lap immortalized for me. Only you could capture his full beauty with precision, if you understand me, Master Eames. I won’t allow you to refuse.”

Eames sighed. "A portrait of his face?"

"More. All of him."

Eames almost choked on his wine. He cleared his throat. His brow rose as Arthur's face went blank. “You wish for him to be…nude?”

“Sì, signore. But I don’t want anything vulgar, of course. No heathen myths from Greece. Just…delicate,” he said softly, running his hands up Arthur’s waist to his sleeves then back down to his tights, “but true to form.”

Eames couldn’t keep the frown from his face. “For a private collection?”

Borso's eyes narrowed. “Absolutely." He smirked, his gaze fond as he kissed Arthur's shoulder. "Would you like that, my little sparrow? To gift to me your likeness?”

Arthur gave him another sad smile but did not comment. His silence seemed to please Borso.

Eames sighed, conflicted. On one hand, he wanted to be free of this place and on the other… “You would be giving me an honor that even Master Botticelli would envy.” He would say no more than that. Eames was a man after all, a man just like all the others here who hungered to see what lay behind Arthur’s heavy, modest layers.

Borso smiled proudly at the thought, clearly missing Eames’ intent, as he brushed Arthur’s hair back. Eames watched his fingers slip through those curls, wishing they were his hands.

“I think it’s time for bed,” was Borso’s answer—or so Eames thought. Arthur was kissed. The musicians and guests watched him again as he took his leave.

Eames admired the back of his knees and calves. He sighed longingly. What would it be like to be able to follow him up those stairs and into bed? Tomorrow he would be nude on Eames' worn couch. This, he could tell already, would not end well.

“Master Eames,” Borso cut into his daydreaming. “I will accompany him to your studio tomorrow morning, but I must leave him in your care until the evening. I expect you to be honorable and to behave in a manner much higher than your status. If he is returned to me in a state any less than that which he left my care…”

Eames swallowed. “My work is what I care about, signore.”

Borso studied him for a long time as the music played on. The other guests laughed at some joke on the other end of the table.

Eames held his breath until finally Borso huffed and sat back, looking please. “Well then, Master Eames. It seems that we understand each other.”

If Eames were any drunker he’d have laughed. “Indeed.”

+

 

Eames woke up hungover the next afternoon when he was shook by a short balding man. He startled, spilling brushes near his bare feet. He squinted in the bright sunlight. “Who the hell are you?”

“Gianfrancesco, Signore Medici’s assistant,” the petite man said hotly, puffing out his chest.

Eames frowned, slurring his words as he stretched like a cat. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to stop wasting my master’s time.”

"Fuck, he's here already?" Eames hurried from his cluster of pillows on the windowsill, cursing under his breath. “Send him up.” He tucked his chemise into his trousers and opted to search for his boots later.

He sighed at the mess of rags and dust but quickly unveiled a massive canvas and dragged his old couch forward into the sunlight just as footsteps echoed up the stairs to his door.

Borso frowned, surveying the room once Gianfrancesco opened the doors for him. “Well this is… an interesting space, Master Eames.”

Arthur peered over Borso’s shoulder as he followed him in, his eyes jumping from here to there as he absorbed as much as he could. “I like it,” he said, seemingly to himself. “So many great things must be created here.” He caught himself when Borso scowled at him.

Borso took him by the arm and led him forward. His frown deepened as he watched Arthur’s eyes soak in the room and the view from the window he'd hurried away to. “Fall from that ledge, Arthur, and you will snap your neck. Come back here now." He sighed. "You have no changing room here, Master Eames?”

Eames glanced around. “I am a man of modest means and space, signore.”

“Hm.” Borso eyed Arthur again before turning to his assistant. “You shall resume your duties for now and return to collect my boy before the sun is set, Gianfrancesco.”

“I may need him longer,” Eames stated, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop himself. Arthur was staring at him again from behind his master's arm.

Eames felt himself tense when Borso stepped towards him, towering over him as he explained himself. “As with the frescos in your house, these paintings take up much time. If I have him—If he’s here only but a few hours each day, he will surely be here for weeks on end, signore.”

Borso turned his attention to his assistant. “Collect my boy before the sun sets,” he stressed again. "Arthur."

Arthur stepped forward to receive him, his eyes on Eames as he was kissed on his forehead, until Borso cupped his face, startling him. “Signore?”

“Behave. Do not be a nuisance. Our genius needs silence and concentration, understood? Master Eames, I shall leave you to your work.”

Eames’ smile only became genuine when Borso and his man left. He breathed deeply, his hands fidgeting as he tried to organize himself. “He’s wrong, you know,” he said to the silent boy, turning to the canvas, his mind set on preparing his space. “I quite like hearing you speak, Arthur. It is not a sound heard nearly as much or as often as it should be… Oh…”

Arthur was nearly nude, slipping off his tights beside the couch, his clothes on a nearby stool. He quickly grabbed a thin red veil from off a pillow to cover himself when he realized that Eames' back was no longer turned. Through his hair, he glanced up at Eames shyly, standing awkwardly, his shoulders hunched. He said nothing, waiting for instruction.

Eames stepped forward slowly. “You… are… more than even I had expected, Arthur."

For all of Borso de' Medici's cloistering him, Arthur's idleness had not marred his youthful figure. Indeed, it had seemed to replace the hard edges of maleness normally found in youths his age with something almost ethereal. He and Eames stood at nearly equal heights, but Arthur was slight. His long legs were shaped with lean muscle, but his narrow waist was softer. The sunlight and shadows played off of his collarbones and chest and the dip down his abdomen leading to his navel. Beneath it, a dusting of hair disappeared under the red cloth.

Eames could paint portraits of him forever and be forever content.

"Here." He touched Arthur’s shoulder. His heart quickened. “Pretend you are resting.”

Arthur lay down on his back, mindful to keep the cloth over his lap. 

Eames stood back to look at him. He frowned. “Something’s off.” He crossed his arms. Arthur looked cold and uncomfortable. “Sit higher—No, perhaps bring…back more? No, that doesn’t look natural. How about your arms—No, not behind your head. Maybe…”

“Show me, signore?" Arthur asked. "Please.”

Eames had not expected that. “More like this.“ He dared to touch Arthur’s hips to position him just so. A deep blush crept into Arthur’s cheeks and ears as he startled when Eames’ hand slipped behind his knee to arrange the cloth between his legs. “Your form is exquisite. I can see why your master would have you painted.”

Arthur said nothing to that, watching Eames with unreadable eyes, guarded, timid, yet his blush spoke truths to Eames louder than words could.

He touched Arthur's knee and petted across the smooth hair on his calf to feel the bones in his ankle, in love with the arch in his foot. “So many paradises could be had all across your flesh.” 

“Signore, please,” Arthur whispered. He shivered when Eames’ touch swept over the sensitive crook of his arm. “You distract me.”

Eames huffed out a quiet laugh. “That makes two of us.” He eased Arthur’s right arm to lie just under his chest. The other, Eames placed in Arthur's lap over the cloth. “Perfect. Now stay just as you are.”

He sat on his stool and quickly began to map out and charcoal his sketch, focused and at ease.

He began to hum as he worked on Arthur’s brow, nose, and lips. He had to pause for a moment just to admire the steady bat of Arthur’s lashes.

In the minutes that passed, a light outline of Arthur’s face appeared under Eames' hand without detail.

“Your hair shall be a delight to replicate. Tussled in… the grass, I think. A peaceful backdrop. As if you had been visited by a lover in a meadow.” He smiled when Arthur averted his eyes. “I wonder, does your master, Signore Medici, like to run his hands through those thick locks?” When he received no answer, he went on, as if he were alone, singing to himself, but every now and then, he lost himself in his work and rambled.

“Does he often kiss those unhappy lips? Tickle them with his own until a smile stirs? He himself does not often smile anyhow, does he? But how could he not? You are sunshine, and red wine, or the amber stone set in his ring come to life and shimmering quietly like fire smoldering in a hearth, illuminating a dark room with a warm glow…”

He finished his outline and began to slowly work in the details. “Borso would have me give you happy, empty eyes, but yours are so full of sharpness and hidden thought. Never have I seen a pair of brown eyes that perplexed me so. I wish you would speak. Reveal what those eyes see when you look at me.”

Out of the corner of his eyes as he smudged in a shadow near Arthur’s jaw, he saw Arthur shift minutely. “Relax your hand over your lap, please.”

He frowned when Arthur only obey reluctantly. A naked courtesan demanding modesty from a thin red cloth. It intrigued Eames to no end. “If your lips are kiss-starved, I suspect that the column of your neck and your shoulders are both equally neglected.” He shook his head, his eyes catching Arthur’s stare once again before he quickly drew the little mole on his collarbone. “He should be counting each and every blessing between every slender finger, every toe, and every ridge and curve within your ears. He should be giving thanks to each pale thigh that he has deemed himself worthy of laying between, but alas… most men have no gift for seeing what’s in front of them. Only painters and sculptors have that skill, it seems.”

He paused to open the shudders on his only other window to let in more light and keep the shadows in tact as the sun briefly disappeared behind a cloud.

Eames exchanged his charcoal stub for a fresh piece. He hummed another tune across the formation of Arthur’s chest.

“I find the areola of either sexes to be insanely erotic.” He sketched Arthur’s on the canvas. “Like little candies of the flesh to tease with my lips and roll my tongue—”

“What is an areola?”

Eames froze. He’d assumed his words had been ignored all this time. He blushed, smirking. “Your nipples.”

As if he could read Arthur’s mind, Eames knew that Arthur imagined his nipples in Eames’ mouth by the way his hand pressed down over his groin again, rigid, holding the cloth tighter.

Arthur was getting hard. Even his ears were red as he tried to maintain his composure.

Eames’ hunger grew watching Arthur’s chest rise and fall. He smiled drawing in the faint lines of Arthur's abdomen and navel.

That voice spoke again. "I make you happy?"

"You sound surprised."

"I've done nothing but lie here."

"That is enough for a painter's heart. Strings of charcoal on canvas are like kisses, you know? I have kissed your hair, your face, neck... with this tool." Eames blushed more, smiling harder. "I'm kissing the light shadow where your hip meets leg, and feel the silk veil under my fingertips as well. Next are the hard bones in your knees, and now your ankles... and feet... and the shadows between your legs where I wish to be, in truth. Where, I wonder, shall I kiss next? Not your lap. Not yet. It is..."

Arthur pressed over his erection more, still trying to hide it.

"It is in a state not requested for this painting nor any others, I think." He smiled again as Arthur's blush crept down his chest. “Shall we take a break?”

“Please,” Arthur panted. “The spell you’ve put on me is strong, Master Eames.”

“Then again we are equal in our torment, for I suffer greatly in the distance between us.”

“Why do you say such things to me? You sing songs to this body and it wishes to sing back when you know that this body is not mine to give to you. You are dangerous to me."

“That is your spell."

Arthur sat up with a scowl, drawing his legs up close, bundling all of the cloth to his lap.

"I cannot help what I say and what I feel.”

At that, Arthur's frown slowly began to diminish. “And…what is it that you feel?”

“Surely the way Cupid did when he first looked upon Psyche. Even more.”

Arthur licked his lips. “You are familiar with Greek myths?”

“I am. I paint such scenes often.”

“The tragedies too, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Then…you are aware of how they end.”

Eames frowned and sighed. “They are fiction, Arthur. This is real.”

“This is impossible.”

Eames stood, coming closer as he cleaned off his blackened hands with a wet rag. “Then you feel the same?” His heart ached. “Tell me you don’t and I will hold my tongue.”

Arthur lowered his eyes, his shoulders hunched. “You are very attractive and clearly confident. And in that confidence, you scare me. You weave words together that would cause me to forget who my master is and what he would do if ever I strayed. You must keep your thoughts to yourself. You must try as I am trying.”

“Can you not but stray just a little for me? Let me have one kiss, one touch, if only just to make certain that I have drawn your likeness accurately on my canvas.”

Arthur shook his head slowly. “I don't know you. All I can be certain of is that you will break my heart the same as I know your smile alone must break hearts everyday. When you venture out for eggs for your paints and bread for your stomach, how many girls and boys will be left in tears because you did not look at them instead of me? You blame me for your feelings. It is not my fault. You are the one feeding my starved heart with praises. How can I test your sincerity? No. I do not know you at all."

Eames stepped closer still. “But you can, if you want.”

“What I want?” Arthur idly massaged the backs of his hands. “What I want is never mine to have. You’ve witnessed my master’s treatment.”

Eames sat on the couch with him. “Your master is not here.”

“Even in the midst of my pleas, you would still fill my mind with temptation. You are a cruel man, Master Eames.”

Eames placed his hand on Arthur’s calf.

Arthur closed his eyes as Eames rubbed his leg from his knee back down to his ankle and foot before circling back. “Please don’t touch me,” He muttered, pulling his leg closer to himself, but not from under Eames’ touch, nor did he move to shoo Eames’ hand away from his thigh. “I have no defenses against you. My…desire for you…further weakens me.”

Eames withdrew his hand and sat back.

Arthur’s blank face gave way to his inner turmoil. He reached for Eames’ hand and placed it back on his skin. “If I could, sweet Leonello, I would give you what you want, but…"

Eames hushed him. “Don't be sad, lovely boy. Talk to me. Feed my hunger with your voice instead.”

When Arthur grew silent, Eames urged him again. “Please? Your master commanded silence from you but again I say he is not here.” Playfully, Eames puffed up his chest and proclaimed in a mocking tone, “I am master here and I ban silences! So, there. Speak.”

Arthur smiled, truly for the first time, shy and dimpled. Eames only fell deeper into his well of longing.

Arthur huffed, his smile losing strength. “My first master used to always say that to share words with someone was a true sign that you cared for them. It meant that you trusted them with your thoughts. And for them to listen—not just hear your voice, but to take in all that you’ve said to them—was proof that they cared for you in return, that they…craved those thoughts, that they wanted to know all of you. When Signore Medici lets me speak and is kind to me, some times I lose myself in my outpouring, like water rushing out of a hole in the bottom of a barrel.” He looked away, sad again. “He is so quick to plug up that barrel that oft times, when the cork is freed again, nothing comes out. I am… too anxious and too experienced with silence to know what words might please you now. Forgive me.”

“Say anything,” Eames urged. “I am listening.”

Arthur huffed again. “I will say then that…” He sighed. “Master Eames, you will never be content just to look upon me in the weeks it will take to complete this work. Neither will I.”

Eames’ smile was equally sad. “No, that’s true. I could never just sit outside of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore and only look at it,” he carefully teased. “I would visit all of its interiors, marvel at the art and structures within its walls, and I would sit in one of its pews and listen to—”

“Master Eames, you are too vulgar!” Arthur buried his face in his hands, his ears red again as his laughter bubbled out of him. “My ears have never heard such! You would compare my... to a church? You are horrid! And blasphemous! And—”

Eames laughed and leaned over him, planting a soft kiss to the back of Arthur’s hand where his cheek was underneath it.

Arthur peeked at him from between his hands, his lips parted as he stared back at Eames who still hovered over him.

Still covering his cheeks, Arthur leaned forward slowly and pressed his lips to Eames’.

It was brief. A simple kiss, but it still left them both feeling breathless and unable to pull apart very far.

Arthur was the first to try to speak. “That…was a mistake.” He covered his face again and moaned, unhappy.

“That was our truth come to light.” Eames took Arthur’s hands and kissed them both.

“It must return to the dark, then.”

“Only after you kiss me again.”

“If I do that…” Arthur’s stare was lost on Eames’ lips. He licked his own. “You have very kissable lips, Master Eames. I would easily be lost in another kiss with you.”

Eames grinned, inching closer. “Then let’s tie a rope around your waist so you can find your way back afterwards.”

Arthur moaned as Eames kissed him deeper. His hands slid to Arthur’s back to lay him down.

Eames could feel Arthur immediately tense, his thighs struggling to not squeeze Eames’ sides even as his back arched just slightly enough for his stomach to touch Eames' shirt. It confused Eames. He drew back.

Arthur panted, his eyes still closed and his lips parted, silently asking for the kiss to continue, but his hands were balled up at his sides.

Eames kissed him again, but softer. Arthur raised his head to keep their lips together, but Eames still broke the kiss. Arthur blinked up at Eames and waited.

Eames supported his weight on his elbow as his free hand caught one of Arthur’s and raised it under his chemise to rest on his back. But as soon as he let go, Arthur’s hand returned to gripping the couch cushion.

“Arthur, you are allowed to touch me. I  _want_  you to.”

Arthur looked stunned. He gaped when Eames sat back and pulled off his chemise.

“Oh my God,” Arthur breathed, blushing furiously before he looked away.

Eames smiled, turning Arthur's face back to him. He lifted Arthur’s hands to touch his stomach. “See? I don’t bite,  _caro mio_. And neither of us has tumbled headfirst into Hell yet. It's fine. It's fun.”

“You're  _gorgeous_ , Leonello. I’ve never…" Arthur frowned suddenly. "You don’t look like me?”

Eames’ chuckle was fond as he guided Arthur’s hands to touch more of him until Arthur was bold enough to let his hands roam freely. “I’d forgotten the etiquette of nobles. Never sex in the daytime and never naked.”

“I am…always naked with…” Arthur swallowed, his hands curious as they tested the solidness of Eames’ arms and ran through the soft hair on Eames’ chest. “You do not feel ashamed?”

“Why should I? I like how I look without clothes. There’s nothing sinful or dirty in that, I think.”

“The first time my master called me to his bed was the first time I’d been naked in front of a lover. My first master and I always wore our nightgowns and left one candle burning by the door, as I’d had assumed everyone did.”

“Even that is a custom of a prudish class much higher than mine.”

“And mine, apparently, because I am never allowed to see my master’s body, but he tears off everything from me when we bed together. It’s… it  _was_  once terrifying. The first time he did it, I felt defiled, but I accepted it.”

“And now?”

Arthur seemed to like touching the hard, thick muscles in Eames’ arms. He smiled, his hand still petting one of Eames’ strong biceps. “Now I know what two warm bodies – one smaller, paler and the other bigger and deliciously hairy – feel like when they touch and moved against each other,” he sighed, placing his palm flat over Eames’ heart before he swallowed and let his hand travel lower, past Eames' abdomen to the top of his trousers. Brave as he was, it was clear he would not go farther on his own.

“Go on,” Eames teased. “See what’s in there.”

Arthur quickly pulled his hand back, bashful when he laughed. “Vulgar.”

“ _Hungry_.” He kissed Arthur again as he unlaced his codpiece, his cock getting harder and harder as Arthur’s tongue slipped past his lips. He moaned low in his chest when Arthur sucked on his bottom lip. He could barely contain himself any longer.

He rose from the couch, pulling off his trousers as he searched the room for his oils. When he turned back to face Arthur, the boy was lying on his stomach, peering at Eames over his shoulder.

Eames had to close his eyes on his way back to the couch, fully naked now, with a hand over his cock and the other holding the oil he placed on the floor. “You should not lie like that, Arthur.”

Arthur rose up on his elbows. “Why?”

“Men hardly have control as it is, boy.” He ran a finger down Arthur’s spine and let his fingers splay over Arthur’s ass before trailing them down Arthur’s thigh to the back of his knee.

“Borso de’ Medici is only control.” Arthur shivered, feeling Eames ease his legs apart. “I want Eames. I want Leonello as you are. Show me that.” He hunched his shoulders as if bracing himself for Eames to become vicious, but as Eames settled over him and followed the trail his fingers had taken with soft kisses now, Arthur began to relax.

“Master Eames!” He gasped, trying to move away, but Eames’ gentle hands held his hips. “What are you doing?”

Eames grinned against the back of Arthur’s thigh. “I’m kissing you.”

“Surely in the wrong place!” He gasped again and buried his face in the pillow and moaned when Eames rolled his tongue over his hole once more.

Eames climbed up Arthur’s body and turned him onto his back where he saw that his rimming had Arthur’s cock leaking on the cushion beneath him. He kissed Arthur navel, shivering himself when Arthur’s slender hands ran though his hair.

He kissed Arthur’s palm, his wrist, his inner elbow. He dragged his teeth over one nipple, hearing Arthur’s moan rise in octave as Eames kissed over his heart up to his collarbone.

“Leonello,” Arthur breathed, his nails digging into Eames’ ribs. “Leonello…you are so sweet to me.” He turned his head eagerly for Eames to kiss his neck.

“You deserve only sweetness,” he purred over Arthur’s pulse. He reached over to dip his fingers in the oil. Eames hooked his arm under Arthur’s leg and let his slick fingers pet his rim. With care, his lips still pressed to Arthur’s neck, his thick middle finger breached his body. He withdrew to dig his fingers in the oil again before he resumed his slowly stretching, praising Arthur’s neck with more kisses.

“I could be content to kiss your throat forever,” he whispered, his eyes closed, listening to Arthur’s gasps. "But there is another part of you I wish to acquaint myself with." He snaked his arm under his back to pull him closer as he added a second finger and curled them, pressing firmly against Arthur’s spot.

Arthur’s back arched at the intense feeling. “Oh God!” He nearly dislodged Eames’ fingers when his leg rose higher up Eames’ arm, his hips gyrating to gain more of that touch.

Eames buried his face under Arthur’s chin, loving the tight, hot feel of Arthur’s body squeezing around him just as much he as loved hearing Arthur’s voice grow desperate and short of breath. “How does that feel? Tell me.” He added a third finger and groaned when Arthur’s nails scratched down his side.

“Too good,” Arthur panted, wrapping his arms around Eames’ head. “I fear…you must bed boys…too often…to know all that you do.”

Eames licked the sweat from Arthur’s skin. He devoured his mouth again as he quickly slicked his cock and rose up on his hands and knees. “Take it, Arthur. I beg you, put this cock where it belongs.”

Arthur spared a glanced between them when he fingers dared to touch Eames’ heavy, thick length. He flushed and squeezed his eyes shut. “You’ll hurt me. Please, Eames, I don’t want to spoil this moment with pain.”

Eames hushed him, chasing Arthur’s mouth again. “Oh,  _tesoro mio_ , I pity you for the lovers you’ve had.”

Arthur’s lips parted against Eames as he moaned, his body taking Eames’ cock gradually. He winced, his nails once again in Eames’ sides. Each slow, little, gentle stroke pushing out a sound as he exhaled.

Eames turned his kisses to the knee near his shoulder, petting the smooth, fine hairs on his leg, all the while watching and listening for any sign of distress from the boy who writhed beneath him. His name was pushed from Arthur's throat on every sigh. Like a pulse or wave, Arthur’s voice rose when Eames stroked in, and his fingers griped Eames’ skin tighter as he stroked out.

Eames moved in a slow rhythm, thrusting his cock deeper. He wanted to fully incase himself in Arthur’s warm. If he could but stay tucked so firmly within his lover, he would never spare another thought wondering about some heaven in a divine realm beyond mortality. This here, these sweet breaths, his panting chest, the thighs that mingled his and Arthur’s sweat as they finally dared to let themselves clamped around him, and soft, hot, tight hole that seized his cock, even the pain sparked under those clawing hands,  _this_ all was more than enough.

He licked the sweat off of Arthur’s adam’s apple before he lifted him into his lap.

They fell backwards. Arthur seemed to not know what to do now, but quickly understood once Eames resumed his slow pace. Arthur rolled his hips and splayed his hands over Eames chest until he could no longer stand the distance between the lips. Eames held him close, lifting his hips harder, full of passion. 

He stroked Arthur’s hips and ribs, rubbed his back and massaged his cheeks, gazing up at Arthur past his wild hair. When his hand slid to Arthur’s stomach, Arthur’s hand covered his and held it as they rocked together, unhurried in the light of the setting sun beyond the windows.

Feeling the telltales signs of heated weight in his loins, Eames tried to guide Arthur’s hand to his cock, wanting to see him stroke himself to completion and feel Arthur’s raptures as he had his own, but Arthur let go of his hand.

Arthur leaned back, still rocking his hips, his more petite cock weeping and starved of attention, but still he would not touch himself. He moaned desperately, begging Eames to bring him to the edge and plummet down with him.

Eames’ hand wrapped around his cock with a gentle grip. Arthur was at his mercy with that touch, overpowered and overwhelmed as he shook through his orgasm. His mouth fell open and his voice rose in louder moans. He gripped Eames’ wrist and the couch as thick, creamy ropes spilled over Eames’ stomach.

It was to Eames like being caught on the sea during a storm. All he could do was hold on and ride it out until the crashing waves sank his boat. He cursed, pulling out, his arms nearly crushing Arthur when he came. His hips thrust his cock between Arthur’s cheeks, spreading his release. He panted, thinking he would never come down from this great height, though he was content to float on forever.

Arthur collapsed back onto the couch, still moaning softly, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the fires of his own orgasm still smoldering.

Eames tumbled from the couch to the floor and stretched out, letting the rough stone cool his fevered body. He closed his eyes and sighed, catching his breath with a grin, his hand combing through his tussled hair.

He heard faint rustling and cracked his eye open to see Arthur quietly sitting, the veil returned to his lap.

“Come down here, love.” It warmed his heart to see Arthur eagerly hurry to join him, the veil left behind.

Arthur’s skin glowed as he lied down beside Eames on his back. He seemed to have to make up his mind first before he turned on his side and slowly inched close enough to wrap his arm over Eames’ waist.

They rested together for a small eternity before Eames spoke. “What did we do?”

Arthur slowly shook his head at first. He raised his hand in the air to examine the remnants of semen on his fingers. “Is this what freedom feels like? I am… very much alive inside. I have not been for too long. For my whole life, now it seems.”

Eames cupped his face and littered it with kisses, his heart aching again, tethered to Arthur’s. “Good.” It was all the words he could come up with at first. Nothing could truly convey just how he felt, how Arthur’s quiet, reverent words made him feel, but when he found his voice again, he tried. “Never have I felt this grateful for the breath in my lungs nor the blood pumping in my veins. Had I not lived to see today, Arthur, I feel my life would have been a waste, but now… mortality is very apparent. I want all of eternity to love you.”

Arthur kissed him until all Eames knew were those sweet, soft lips. It only made his heart hurt more.

Arthur rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as Eames’ teary eyes stayed on him. He nodded and took a deep breath. His hand sought out Eames’ between them to hold it again. “What is the name of a sin one gladly commits and would commit over and over again without end?” 

Eames chuckled, sitting up. “Not a sin.” He sucked on Arthur’s fingers to clean away his come. “There can be no sin in love this pure.”

Arthur smiled softly up at him, watching Eames slip his ringed finger past his lips. When Eames finished his teasing, Arthur cushioned the back of his head on his hands.

Eames pulled over a plate of discarded color tests, the little blobs of reds and oranges nearly dried up. 

Arthur watched him swirl a wet brush over one color, breaking up the clotting surface. “How old are you, Master Eames?”

“Twenty-four.” Eames wet an old brush and dripped the remnants of a yellow spot of paint with an accidental drop of black in its center onto Arthur’s chest. He watched Arthur’s nipple harden under the cool brush. “This saddens you? Why?”

Arthur’s back seemed to arch of its own accord. “We are but a few years apart and yet you have accomplished much while I have…nothing.”

Eames' voice was as quiet as his, focusing on the line of orange he dragged over Arthur's sternum, loving the way Arthur fought not to shy away from the cold. “You have riches and wealth, Arthur.”

“Which are my master’s," he murmured, "and which you do not care for, if this studio speaks for you.”

“No, no, no.” Eames shook his head, dragging more yellow on the brush across his ribs to let it pool in Arthur’s navel. “Not monetary wealth. Your wit, your mind gives you much to be proud of.” He painted a red tree on Arthur’s chest with his fingers. “Tell me, Arthur, where were you born? What is your blood?”

Arthur frowned. “I come from the least dignified place on earth, save for a prison.” He propped himself up on his elbows to see Eames dribble clumping purple paint down his stomach. “I was born in a brothel, from a mother barely old enough to be a woman, and a man who…well, you know how that goes.”

Eames had been trailing spirals of blue down his thigh. He paused, glancing at him with worry. “You were also a…?”

“No. Thank God. Even in a place like that, they still have standards in regard to the very, very young. I swept floors with a broom twice my height and stripped beddings, carried water, chased out an occasional rat,” he laughed without humor. “I knew even as a little boy that one day, however, when I would outgrow my little shoes and dirty smock, I too would have lie on my back for some stranger’s coin, but at nine I was saved by an old man who taught me how to love and how to hold a quill.” He grinned, remembering.

“Like a phoenix raised from ashes.”

“I know now that my first master was not so perfect of a man, but still… he was good to me in every way he knew how to be. My master often boasts of killing him,” Arthur sighed. “As if there is any honor in murdering an old man with ones own hand. He won’t let me continue my education, not only because he thinks it above my status, but because it spites my old master. It spites a dead man.”

Eames thumbed more spots of paint on Arthur’s calf. He snorted. “That’s awfully foolish.”

“Men like Borso de’ Medici are often foolish," he panted, closing his eyes and shivering as Eames brush trailed along the base of his spent cock. "Pride and ego rule all.”

“Not all.” Eames tossed the brush aside. “For however much he stifles you, your spirit is still tucked away. You guard it fiercely.”

Arthur sat up, his expression so pained, so desperate, it broke Eames’ heart. “I  _must_ , Leonello. I must or I will surely fade into nothing.” He stood, wrapping an old sheet around him. It slipped from his shoulders when he paced, sticking to a spot on paint on his hip. “Oh, if I could flourish. What sort of man would I be then?”

Eames watched Arthur roam before he rose to redress in his shirt and trousers. “You'd be a genius.”

Arthur blushed, unable to hide his smile. “Not like you and the way in which you spring life into the world with your pigments and brushes.”

Eames sat on his stool. “But you have already your own power,” he responded, making minute adjustments to the charcoal sketch.

“Power.” Arthur scoffed. “Power between my legs and on my back the way it was always destined for me. A voice, prohibited from speaking poetry and philosophy, only allowed to rise in panting sighs in the dark. Beauty I have, but beauty is not eternal—”

“I believe it is,” Eames whispered as Arthur stood before him. He reached out to free Arthur’s hands of the sheet covering him. It fell to the floor around their feet. He held Arthur’s hands, kissing the backs of them. “My skill will be brief in this life. My hands will grow brittle and my sight will dim, but your beauty will last forever on this canvas. This,” he pointed to the charcoal sketch that was already coming to life even without color, “this is as close as we will ever get to immortality.”

Arthur admired the sketch as Eames kissed a circle around his navel. “You will make me immortal, Master Eames?”

Eames squeezed the back of Arthur’s thighs, his teeth dragging over his hip as his hands rose to massage the plump curves of Arthur's cheeks. “Long after Borso de’ Medici, after  _all_  the Medici, have passed from this world, this painting we’ve made may live on.”

“Good,” Arthur gasped, closing his eyes when Eames took him into his mouth. “It is a good legacy then.”

Eames let Arthur’s cock slip free. “One of many.” He stood, his hands gentle on Arthur’s arms. He guided him back to the couch. “It would be a crime to paint you only once. I would beg your master for more time with you if I must.”

Arthur let Eames lie him down again and open his legs. “Just to paint?”

“To paint.” Eames stroked his green knee before lifting his blue-streaked leg to rest it on the back of the couch. “To look at.” His fingertips raised goosebumps when they trailed down Arthur’s thighs. “To listen to.” Those hands spread out over the paint drying and cracking on his stomach, reaching for Arthur’s panting chest. “To love.”

“Then love me again— _now_ —while we still have time.”

Eames pulled aside the codpiece he’d never relaced and spit on his cock. His eyes fluttered closed, feeling the warmth envelop him as Arthur gasped beneath him.

Arthur clutched the arm of the chair and rocked his hips up to meet Eames’ long, slow thrusts.

They heard a heavy door shut on the level below them. It echoed up the stairs.

The door to his studio was still cracked open. Eames could hear footsteps up the stone.

“Fuck!” he hissed and quickly moved away, as Arthur scrambled for his clothes.

Eames managed to fasten his trousers and grab the sheet to hold up around Arthur's shoulders to cover him just before Arthur's chaperone pushed open the door. 

“What is the meaning of this?” the balding man asked, looking around at the mess.

“Oh! Nothing inappropriate, signore." Arthur blushed. "Master Eames was helping me to redress when a bee flew in through the opened window!"

"A very large bee," Eames concurred, his cheeks as pink as Arthur's.

"And you know how frightened I am of bees, signore. I nearly took down the whole studio in my attempt to run!—For which I am very sorry for, Master Eames.” Arthur fought the urge to snicker as he quickly slipped into his tights. “I’m only so grateful that the tiny beast was crushed before I could tumble into more of Master Eames’ paints.”

Gianfrancesco narrowed his eyes at Eames. “Hm. Where is the offending creature now?”

“Well, Master Eames tossed it back outside. No use in keeping a crushed bee, sir.”

The man shook his head, frowning up at Arthur. “You will need a bath now. Your master shall be very cross—with the both of you.”

Arthur's spirit withered. He stepped into his shoes and refastened his belt with dread in his eyes. “Yes, signore." He turned to Eames to give him a sad smile. "Good evening, Master Eames. I _deeply_ enjoyed today.”

Eames wiped a smudge of paint from Arthur chin, wishing that he could kiss those lips again. "Right. To you the same, Arthur. Until tomorrow." He followed Arthur to the door where the old servant helped Arthur into his cloak.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder at him again, a little more life in his smile. "Yes! Tomorrow! I shall be counting dow the—" He cut his eye at Gianfrancesco and fell silent.

The chaperone glared up at Eames all the while. "Know that this will come out of your salary, signore."

Eames huffed at him. “No good deed goes unpunished with the Medici family, does it?”

The man gave him one more disapproving look. “No, Master Eames, it does not. Come along, Arthur, your master is waiting.”

+

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

+

 

Arthur's thoughts roamed on the carriage ride back to the palazzo, recalling old memories.

There would always be a place in Arthur’s heart for the old man who’d saved him as a child, but for the first several weeks after Arthur had been taken into Borso de’ Medici’s home, his former master’s legacy had been sullied when Borso took Arthur to bed.

It had been an unspoken fact that in Guidobaldo d'Este's care, Arthur’s daylight hours were filled with overflowing joy and happiness, but when the nights came… so too had come Arthur’s pleas and his sobbing at the pain he'd endured. This had been his fate, one he'd gladly accepted, for he'd known no better. His old master’s unending love was what he’d lived for, and on occasion, his own release would come in the evening, brought forth by his master’s generous hand as they'd sat together reading. This pain in the night, he’d thought, could not be helped. It was natural and right because it was his master’s way, as it must have been the way for all boys who shared their beds with men.

But then he’d been stripped down and claimed in Borso de' Medici's bed. Borso had yet, to this day, to make Arthur come by his hand or by any other means and he shamed Arthur for the accidental messes made in the sheets when Arthur's forced repression broke like a dam from some erotic dream in the night when he slept. And yet, Arthur had only ever felt pleasure under this new master, never pain.

How could this have been? How could the man he feared, the one who punished him for having too loud a voice or smiling too often, how could that man have made him blush and sigh, begging for a release that was not granted him? Perhaps where Borso was swift with his punishments throughout the day, Guidobaldo’s punishment had been the pain after dark. If so, it was a cruel and unwarranted thing indeed. Arthur’s mind had been a storm of doubt, his heart torn for loving and mourning and hating the old man as he spent his days wandering the halls of Borso’s palazzo.

Wandering was the only activity not banned by his new master—not yet, at any rate. Sneaking about behind statue and curtain, with his imagination and his skill for eavesdropping as medicine against his boredom. It was wandering that led Arthur to understand the truth about sex. All the servants ever seemed to gossip about was sex.

Arthur didn't know that sodomy was taboo, even illegal under the right circumstance. Guidobaldo had kept him hidden away in his tower but Arthur had never had reason to ask why. Now he knew. Guidobaldo was no cruel man, and their sex had not been a punishment at all, but a product of ignorance.

Arthur had grown to pity the old man for that, more so than he had ever pitied himself. For as much as he loved his former master, nights spent with Borso de' Medici he would not exchange for past pain. But the pleasure found in Borso's bed was torture all itself. To bend and to yield and be driven to the edge in that effort, nearly every time, only to be abandoned once his master had found his own pleasure and turned away, that now was his new fate. As he had accepted his handling with Guidobaldo, he'd accepted this from Borso.

That was, until he'd shared sweet kisses and warmth with Eames. Never before had the pleasures of a man's sex and the pleasures of his own release come together into one act. 

Borso was still busy in meetings with his cousins when Arthur returned home. He was scrubbed clean by a servant and redressed before his master could see him covered in paint.

As he followed his master upstairs from the dining hall to his bedchamber, it was painfully clear that he would never know love as powerful and as complete as he had had in Eames' arms. 

Arthur clutched Borso’s nightgown, his bottom lip between his teeth to muffle himself as he was taken hard against the headboard. The backs of his hands were sore from daring to feel his master’s skin under his gown. When he moved to lift his legs higher, to encourage the man to thrust deeper, silently longing for Eames’ sex, he was turned onto his stomach.

He rubbed his cock against the sheets, his face buried in the pillow. In his mind, he was with Eames. He imagined those rough hands on his hips pulling him back to meet every stroke. He imagined Eames’ breath behind his ear, whispering more of his sweet words from those lovely, full lips.

As Borso's breath puffed against the shell of his ear, Arthur closed his eyes and envisioned himself touching Eames' skin,  _seeing_  him, again. If he could grip those arms, hold onto that strength, that... pure love, as Eames had called, if he could just have that once more, then perhaps he could carry on as he'd had here. Maybe then, he could survive.

He pushed his hips back, trying to angle himself for the spot inside him that Eames had touched. As he neared the edge, he longed to feel Eames' hand on his cock. The hunger stirring in Arthur’s belly overwhelmed him. He pressed his fingertips to his neck where Eames had planted so many kisses.

His sudden release surprised both him and his master. He moaned, keeping Eames’ name trapped at the back of his throat, barring it from passing his lips. 

 

As servants changed the sheets that were soiled with Arthur's come, Borso angrily tied his robe tighter around his waist and hissed, "From now on, you will sleep in a room of your own, boy. Ruin those sheets instead."

Arthur fought down his smirk, standing in his nightgown in the corner. All while his master barked orders for the servants to work faster so that he could sleep, Arthur traced his lips with his knuckles, his mind, his body, still calling out for Leonello Eames.

+

 

Eames was wide awake and ready when Gianfrancesco brought Arthur to the studio in the days that followed.

No sooner had the chaperone left, Eames pulled Arthur into his arms. He kissed his soft lips, his body pressing Arthur’s to the wall.

“I missed you,” he whispered, greeting Arthur’s jaw and neck with welcoming kisses.

“Eames…” Arthur’s voice was already filling with the weight of his own lust, but there was caution in that deeply uttered word.

But he could say no more than that when Eames held his face, and reclaimed his lips, his fingers slipping into dark curls.

Arthur broke away and pulled Eames hands down to his chest. “Eames, I must tell you first that…” He moaned as Eames roughly palmed his swelling cock in his tights. He laughed. “You make me forget my warning!”

Eames chuckled breathlessly. “Only noblemen need live by warnings and care, darling.” Each knot and string, or ribbon and tie, Eames pulled apart in haste, unclothing Arthur as if he were unwrapping a gift. “We have only humble sustenance,” he teased. “My wine for nourishment and the heat between your lovely thighs to keep us warm.”

Arthur landed on his back on the couch with Eames covering him. “But, Eames, I have to tell you…” He blushed when Eames removed his tights, revealing finger marks on his hips and inner thighs. “My master’s wine has… already been poured.”

Eames sat back, his brow furrowing. His hands trailed over bruises and bites that were not his. “Oh.”

Arthur’s cheeks flushed with shame. “He could not wait to have me. He usually only asks for me at nighttime, but he will not be home for the next two days, so he took to my bed this morning before he left to see his wife in the country.”

Eames sighed. “You wish for me to stop, then?” Even though Arthur’s grip on Eames’ loose chemise still quietly pulled Eames towards him, his legs tightening just so around Eames’ waist.

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “I only feared that you would not want me, after…knowing that I… Please tell me that you still do.”

Eames’ brow rose in understanding. Relieved, he smiled and kissed Arthur’s worried frown. His thumb circled Arthur’s softened rim. He picked up his small bottle of oil. “You are already sated?”

Arthur shook his head again. “I’m parched.”

Eames tilted his head as he slipped two fingers inside Arthur’s body, massaging his inner flesh with oil and made sure that Arthur had not been harmed by his master. “Does he not possess the skill?”

Arthur closed his eyes as he panted. “My master, he... has skill enough to please himself and... in his pleasure I find some enjoyment but am always left... parched and wanting my own completion, but... he has no time for such things. After all, it is not  _he_  who belongs to  _me_.”

Eames added a third slowly, his cock aching in his codpiece when Arthur moaned and winced. “Do you belong to me as well,  _caro mio_?”

“Yes, Leonello,” Arthur sighed. "Always." His fingers pulled loose the strings on Eames’ trousers, freeing his length. “If this world were fair, I would only be yours.”

As Arthur’s hand stroked him, Eames leaned down to kiss Arthur again before he whispered against Arthur’s lips, “I alone belong to you.”

Arthur’s body seized around Eames’ fingers, hearing him say that. He smiled. "Yes, you are mine own. That is more than enough for me."

 

Their lovemaking was slow, sensual much like their first time, only now, Arthur required no coaxing when it came to letting his hands, and even his tongue, roam across the expanse of Eames' bare skin.

Eames redressed and positioned Arthur on the couch as Arthur dozed. He sat at his stool and began work on the portrait's underpainting.

His palette and brushes, however, soon found their way on Arthur's skin again. 

"I can never stay away from you for very long."

Arthur's smile was sleepy. "The portrait will never be finished at this rate. We could be at this... for months at this point. Good," he panted into the old pillow once he'd turned over, smearing the shades of green and grey colors Eames had used to paint a garden on his stomach. He spread his legs and pushed his hips up and laughed when Eames let the brush fall on the floor.

Eames peppered kisses down his back. He ran his fingertips over Arthur's ass to his lower back before circling back down, keeping him spread to rim him deeply, hungry to take him again.  

"Leonello," Arthur moaned, bringing his leg up under him. "I'm—"

The loud knock startled them both. Arthur rushed to quickly slip into his chemise and tights. Eames' heart pounded as he hurried to open the door.

Gianfrancesco stepped over the threshold and immediately crossed his arms, glaring at the dark paint showing through Arthur's thin chemise. " _More_ bees, Master Eames?"

Eames sputtered. "Yes! It must be the fruit in the bowl or...oils...that keep attracting them."

"Straight to Arthur?"

Eames and Arthur shared a nervous glance as Arthur quickly slipped into his boots. "Right. Those little pests, they just... can't... keep away from him."

Before Arthur could speak, Gianfrancesco caught him by the arm and quickly ushered him out the door. He turned to Eames, his expression blank as he stared. "Such _pest_ must be crushed before they have a chance to harm Borso de' Medici's young ward, you agree?"

"Of course," Eames stated, frowning.

"Even yourself?" 

"Even...?" Eames tilted his head. "I don't understand." 

"Oh, I think you do, signore." Gianfrancesco pulled his cloak more snug to his person and turned to leave. "I truly think you do."

+

 

Arthur’s shoes tapped softly in the statue-lined corridor to the dining hall.

His hair dripped, still drying from his bath. He felt as if a lightning storm rumbled within his body, sparking bright bolts of light, sparking fire. The bath may have scrubbed away Eames’ presence from his skin, but he could still feel those fingertips down his spine, teeth over his nipples, and the bliss of a truly perfect coupling. He fought the urge to remove Gianfrancesco‘s hand from his sleeve. He wanted to run down the hall, or even skip, trailing his fingers on the wall across one of Eames’ frescos until his chaperone moved him out of reach.

He was happy to eat his supper alone in the grand dining hall. A quiet evening with just the two servants in the corner and the fire crackling in the hearth was a treat he did not receive often.

Arthur waited several minutes for someone to arrive with his supper, eyeing the fruit in the large bowl just outside of his reach. He glanced around the big empty room several times, trusting that the servants and guards would not tell his master of his theft before he quietly slid the bowl towards him, eager to snatch the pomegranate on the top of the fruit pile.

He studied it, hoping his master would not notice it's absence when he returned. It had been months since Arthur had been allowed to eat one, as they were Borso's favorite and therefore Borso's fruit alone. “Madam?” He flicked his finger on the leathery fruit’s crown. He looked at the servant he addressed. “May I have a knife to…”

Borso was nearly unseen in his black robes, standing near the servant in the doorway.

Arthur quickly put the fruit back and pushed the bowl to its former spot before he tucked his hands in his lap. He swallowed. “Signore."

“Sparrow.” Borso chuckled. He stood behind him to bury his hand in the back of Arthur's wet hair and eyed the dampness left on his hand as he withdrew. He squeezed the back of Arthur’s neck in a seemingly pleasant welcome, but it was too hard, painful, a warning.

Arthur watched him sit. "I thought... You did not travel today?"

The rest of the servants brought in the trays of the dishes Borso loved. Arthur took several deep breaths, panicking, suddenly feeling as if Borso would look up from his wine and sense Eames on his skin.

"A little mouse informed me that my wife was entertaining Caterina Sforza, so no, I did not. For my health, you see."

Arthur laughed quietly, smiling. "She scares me, signore."

"Signora Sforza only puts my Bracco  _cagne_ to shame, which could be said for all Sforza, but especially her. Nothing to fear there, my boy." Borso let a servant fill Arthur’s cup only halfway with a watered down wine. “Tell me about your day. Did you behave?”

“Yes, master. I enjoy watching Master Eames work. And…” He swallowed. “He was a very kind, quiet man as always.” He smiled, remembering Eames kissing his hands as he rubbed them together under the table, watching Borso prepare his own plate.

Borso cut him a small slab of venison. He stared at Arthur with narrowed eyes. “Did he touch you?”

The tremor in Arthur’s hand was unnoticeable to his master, but Arthur could see the contents of his cup ripple in the candlelight. “I always feel very safe with him—”

“That is not what I asked you,” Borso said, his voice as flat as ever. “Did he touch you?”

“No,” Arthur quickly answered, praying that he did not blush at the memory. "Never."

Borso continued to stare at him. “Your hair is wet. You always require a bath when you are returned here. Is Master Eames inappropriate with you?”

“No, master.”

“Are you inappropriate with him?”

“Of course not.” Under the table, Arthur balled his hands into fists, wishing he could strike the man. Shame washed over him like a flood. “Of course not, master.”

Borso sat back, his chair creaking. The fire in the hearth crackled. “If I take you upstairs and...  _inspect_  you, what would I find, I wonder.”

“Nothing, signore.” Arthur closed his legs tighter together, his eye downcast. “Please. I am...  _your_  sparrow. Yours.”

Borso at last handed him the plate. “Tomorrow, I shall stay with you. Gianfrancesco tells me that Master Eames works fast. Would you like my company, sparrow?”

Arthur nodded quickly, trying hard to swallow his food.

“Good. When you are finished, we shall retire to my bed. I have not felt your presence in these halls all day. I want you.”

"You had me this morning," Arthur said to his food.

"And I shall have you again because I wish it. Don't worry, I won't keep you long. You will be returned to your own bed before the night ends... and to whatever book you've smuggled from my library again. Sì?"

Arthur smiled in answer, prompting Borso to smile back.

As they ate in silence, he pretended to feel not Borso’s stare, but Eames’ instead. 

+

 

Outside of Eames' windows, a pair of men played music in the market. Eames danced around his studio, picking up scattered pots and charcoal stubs as he moved about, tidying the space.

He carefully removed the sheet covering Arthur’s canvas and took a moment to admire it. He could not wait to have the boy on his couch again. He would make love to him by the windows, let their sighs and moans mix with the music drifting up from outside.

He was about to lean out of the window to shout at the men to keep playing when they stopped, but the door to the street opened and closed downstairs. It didn't matter. He and Arthur did not require music, anyways. They would be making music of their own shortly.

Eames smiled when he heard Gianfrancesco‘s knock on his door, but when the man stepped inside with Arthur standing tall behind him, Borso de’ Medici stood even taller behind Arthur.

“Signore.” Eames bowed his head.

“Master Eames,” Borso sighed, still looking around at the much cleaner space critically.

Eames’ mood was not dampened until he saw how sad Arthur’s expression was. As if they had never even spoken before, let alone coupled. He fought the urge to rush to him. “Arthur?”

His worry dissipated when Arthur gave him a quiet, secretive smile and bowed his head to him. “Hello, signore. Are you well?”

“Very much so. I had music to brighten my morning. Everyone should have such pleasures.”

Arthur’s smile grew. “You heard the music from your windows, signore?” He stood on his tiptoes for a second, trying to peer out of the windows across the room when Borso's arm reached out to block him from leaving his side.

“I could.” Eames tried not to frown. He leaned on one windowsill. “It was lovely. Shame that they stopped playing.”

“I made them stop,” Borso stated, stepping in front of Arthur, silencing him in his shadow. “You need no distraction from your work and the sons of merchants whose fathers owe me money are better off working as well.”

“Oh. Right. Of course. Well, I thank you, signore.” In his mind, Eames could not run out of insults he wished to fling at the man. It was one thing for Borso de’ Medici to permanently fix a rain cloud atop his own home, but to tether one here had Eames remembering just why he’d first refused more commissions from him.

“I wish to see your process today,” Borso said, “if you don’t mind.”

Now Eames understood Arthur’s sadness. He groaned internally. Arthur’s fists were balled up at his sides as he glared at the back of his master’s head. Eames pretended not to notice as he forced a smile that matched Borso’s. “Oh. Oh I don’t mind at all. It would be an honor. I’m ready for you, Arthur.”

Arthur nodded, waiting for Borso’s man to leave.

Borso grabbed Arthur’s collar with too much roughness where Arthur had been unlacing his collar strings. “You do not undress behind some covering, boy?”

“I…" Arthur sputtered. "There is no place for…" He lowered his voice, taking on an edge of hardness that surprised Eames. "Master, his back was turned.”

Eames quickly turned his back and hurried to stand behind the canvas as if he had not seen or heard anything before Borso’s glare could catch him.

Borso held Arthur’s cloak around him as he undressed, ever mindful of where Eames was.

Eames kept his eyes down as he stepped forward, bracing himself. “Signore, may I have your permission to…arrange Arthur for the pose? His hair, arm placement, the… drape covering?”

“What drape covering?” Borso followed Arthur closely with the cloak until Arthur collected the red cloth and placed it as Eames had the day before.

“Arthur chose to give himself some modesty, signore. I did not argue.” Eames explained, relieved when his words pleased Borso.

Eames imagined petting a wolf’s cub in front of its mother would be far easier than touching Arthur to position him  _without_  touching him under Borso’s glare. The man hovered close to his back, watching Eames’ hands with narrowed eyes. Eames had no idea what the man would do if Arthur  _did_  have the same reaction to being touched that he normally had, but Eames did not want to find out. 

Their love and passion, those sweet kisses, may have been their world before, but _this_ was Borso's world, and it was filled to the brim with unspoken threats, rumors of murder, and the brutal reminder of his ownership, his power over Arthur  _and_ Eames.

Eames circled the space between the couch and canvas, referencing the painting before arranging Arthur more and more. Matching his hair was the hardest task, partly because of his curls, partly because he wanted to run his hands through them.

Borso frowned. “I do not care for his pose. Change it.”

Eames skidded to a halt. “ _Scusi_ , signore?”

Borso repeated himself, idly running his fingers through Arthur’s hair, ruining its careful placement, as he studied Arthur. “Would his leg not look better bent here? Or what about raising this arm above his head? And… what if he did  _not_  have this cloth covering his lap?”

Eames rubbed his hands on his trousers to stop from balling them into fists. The entire sketch of Arthur, every line, every shadow, every detail was already on the canvas. Even the underpainting was nearly complete.

“Perhaps,” Eames tried, “you may be looking at him from the wrong angle. If you will. Please.” He held out his hand for Borso to come and view the painting. “You see, signore? It is…” Oh, if Eames could voice what the image was.

“Seductive,” Borso muttered, taking the word right out of Eames’ head.

“But without being vulgar, as you’d stressed.”

Borso scratched his chin, taking another step back to observe both the drawn Arthur and the one on the couch. “Hm. Well, the painter always knows best. Continue.”

Eames had to sit on his stool or else collapse in his relief. He let go a deep,  _long_  breath. “Good.”

 

The day was filled with tension and silence, save for Borso’s occasional remark or question and Eames' short reply.

Eames had to work slowly, recreating his palette for the remainder of the underpainting. He was forced to apply his terre verte from bottom to top, feet-first this time, because Borso too often abandoned the stool Eames had placed beside his in favor of sitting near Arthur’s head to stroke his hair, further tussling the curls out of place as he bored Eames near tears with his talk of banking.

"You are the most beautiful creature in the world, my sparrow," Eames heard Borso mutter, "I never acknowledge that fact enough." 

He glanced at them just in time to catch Arthur's expression as the boy looked up at his master. 

Jealousy overwhelmed Eames, stealing his breath. It was painful to see Arthur, to have him here and not be allowed to touch, and not be able to speak to him and hear his voice in answer. Eames was actually glad when Borso decided to end the session before sunset.

He stood and stretched, still tense. “I hope I didn’t bore you, signore,” Eames said, trying not to look at Arthur redress and risk giving himself away. They’d made it thus far without a hint of their infidelity. He would not fail Arthur now. “And you, Arthur, you were excellent once again.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder at Eames as he tied the strings on his collar. "Thank you, Master Eames."

Borso was silent when he opened the door to let his assistant back in. His eyes were unreadable as he studied Eames.

Eames smiled and fidgeted with one of his brushes, chilled by that stare. “It was a good, productive day,” he said to Borso, who had taken Arthur’s arm to pull him to where he stood ready with Arthur’s overcoat.

Borso’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Indeed,” he said quietly, raising his brow. “No bees this time.”

Eames tilted his head. “Bees?” Arthur froze, but only Eames noticed as he laughed nervously, catching himself. “Right… No bees today. I had almost forgotten that.”

“Hm.” Borso rubbed Arthur’s arms and squeezed his shoulders. “Hopefully no bees tomorrow, either. Good day, signore.”

As soon as Eames heard the door close downstairs, he closed his own and flopped down on the couch. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed, unable to shake the cold darkness Borso left in his wake.  

+

 

Borso decided to sit in on every session for the following weeks.

To be so repressed for days on end, for Eames to fret and pine behind the canvas, it was agony. 

Borso's presence, his proximity to Arthur hurt Eames, as if he were watching his lover lie in a cage, trapped under the heavy hand Borso would rest on Arthur's shoulder.

Business with family was the only thing that stopped Borso from returning at the start of the new month, but without him, Eames knew surely that the man would not send Arthur here alone. Perhaps it was for the best. Maybe distance would give him time to rein in his desire before he could make some rash mistake that would put Arthur in danger.

Not to mention, in a matter of days the portrait would be complete. Both Arthur and the painting could soon be gone from his studio forever.

Reluctant as he was, he welcomed the quiet emptiness in his space.

But as he worked on finishing touches for several smaller commissions in the late afternoon, he was surprised to hear a knock on his door before Arthur stepped in, alone.

Eames stood, letting his brush clatter to the floor.

Arthur glanced around sheepishly, still hovering in the doorway. "Am I interrupting you, signore?"

"You are... here... alone? How?"

Arthur smirked, emboldened. "The prostitutes on this street are very pretty. My chaperone could not wait to be rid of me to... tend to his private dealings with one of them. My master was recently repaid some of the debts owed to him, so he gave Gianfrancesco a few coins before he left for his cousin's villa. When I last saw my handler, he was following several women like a dog into a tavern, so... I'm here."

Eames watched the living manifestation of one of his paintings' little godlings wander about his studio, pausing here and there to touch one unfinished painting, then another. Arthur walked with a quiet air of confidence more suited for a prince than a rich man’s toy. So unlike the timid and reserved boy he’d been on that first day.

But still as off-limits to Eames as ever. “Your master did not send you, Arthur. This is dangerous, coming here.”

Arthur plucked up an old paintbrush from the floor, the hem of his knee-length overgown ruffling as he moved. “I told my master where I would be before he left. This is the only place outside my master's walls that he will allow me to go, _having faith in my chaperone_ , of course."

Eames rubbed his face, accidentally smudging blue paint on his nose, but he didn’t notice, distracted by his need to hold Arthur. “Good. I do not wish for trouble from a Medici.”

"It is like a sanctuary for me here," Arthur muttered, eyeing the space and all it's colors and clutter. "He likes that I enjoy posing for you and watching you paint. He is considering more commissions from you again, when this portrait is done. I hope so." Arthur plopped down on the old couch with a bright but shy smile. He lowered his eyes as he toyed the embroidery on his belt. “I too have a request, Leonello.”

Eames blushed. There was no better sound than his name spoken from those lips in that voice. He'd missed it. More than anything, in truth. “Yes?”

Arthur patted the thin cushion. “Come and sit with me?” He lay down on the couch, much like he was posed for the portrait, only… he looked just as inviting fully-clothed as he did when lying bare.

Eames obeyed. He swallowed, his hungry gaze on Arthur’s ankles when the boy removed his boots and tucked his feet under Eames’ leg. His voice was teasing but careful when he spoke, as if putting force behind his words would sour this private moment between them. “Arthur?”

Arthur arched his brow, his fingers looping playfully in one of his wild curls on the pillow. “Hm?”

Try as he did to keep a safe distance, Eames knew that it was impossible to resist. “May I touch you… again?”

Arthur’s smile was shy as he spread his legs. “I was afraid that you would not ask, for how quiet you are today. Yes, Master Eames. I would prefer that you touch me again.”

“Ah, _but_ ,” Eames cautioned, his hands sliding up Arthur’s calves, over smooth, rich tights. “I would loathe tarnishing such fine clothes with my poor, rough hands.”

Arthur sat up, the motion languid and graceful as he leaned forward, his voice as soft as the wool under Eames’ fingertips. “When I return to my master’s palazzo, he will say first that I smell of the city, of the streets, of  _you_  and your paints. Then he will undress me, and then he will have his servants burn these clothes.” His emerald ring sparkled on his finger as his slender hands raised to his doublet's high collar and pulled it open as far the ties allowed. “Don’t let this overgown or this doublet or these tights be wasted, Master Eames.  _Enjoy them._ ”

Eames lost his battle and grabbed him roughly, pushing him down with a force that clearly startled Arthur. It gave Eames pause. This wasn't just any boy, not one he could grip tight and leave his mark on. Arthur was and had always been someone else's, to be carefully petted and preserved. He sat back and rubbed his face.

Arthur sat up. “Why did you stop?”

Eames shook his head. “I am a drunk who gets into fights and gambles away all of the money your rich master gives me. I’m no good for you, boy. You should go home, where you’ll be taken care of.”

Arthur’s demeanor shattered like dropped glass. “Why are you sending me away? You… I know these weeks have been long, but have we truly become so unfamiliar with one another? What we've shared in secret, Eames, it was,” he looked down at his empty hands. “It was heaven to me.”

“And to me, Arthur. Heaven for a time too short, but we are both returned to earth now. I cannot provide for you what your master does, not in safety, or in money, and I—”

“Borso de’ Medici is a man who keeps his toy polished and locked in an expensive trunk when he tires of play. What is there to love in that? Eames, please. I’ve felt like a squashed bug under his thumb for  _years_ , but then you touched me, we… we bared our hearts, and I cannot stop thinking—No, I  _know_  certainly—that it brought me back to life.”

He took Eames’ hands and placed them back on his waist. He held Eames’ face and kissed it, claiming his lips before he whispered. “You are the only man to ever ask my permission. And when I speak, you listen, when you look at me, you see  _me._ I love that.”

"Then, like me, you love too easily and carelessly, boy. That is my fault, the danger you once spoke of. My spell." 

"That I willingly plunged myself into, because I thought that you..." Arthur looked pained, but he persisted. “Spend my master’s money however you like, I do not care, just do not deny me the affection you showed to me before. I _need_ it.” His shoulders sank. “Tell me that you feel differently, then. Tell me that you only wanted to use my body and cast me off when you sated your lust the same as others would, and… I’ll leave.”

Eames took a deep breath, feeling the full weight of Arthur's heart in his hands.

He knew that there was no going back from this point, knew that he would never want to go back, never want to stand beyond Arthur’s gaze again, no matter the danger.

His hand slid to Arthur’s knee. He glanced up at last. “Stay.”

+

 

Eames slowly pealed Arthur out of his layers before he removed his own shirt and trousers. He piled them on the couch once he’d taken the time to feel all the buttons and stitched patterns on Arthur’s clothes.

He sat on a sheet on the floor with his charcoal, sketching little figures of Arthur moving about the room.

He paused to pour more wine into Arthur’s cup when the boy returned for more. Eames blamed his breathlessness on his drink, but it was seeing the sunlight through Arthur’s curls and the little hairs on his arms and legs that truly struck him. The light surrounding Arthur was like a halo. He longed to paint him with fluttering wings.

“You always look at me that way,” Arthur said, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear as he returned to the window. He held the cup to his chest and leaned his side against the wall. 

“Hm?” Eames blinked slowly, letting his eyes trail up Arthur’s legs to his hip, up his arm and to his face. “In what way?”

“I have no words for it.” A smile slowly formed. “You’re doing it again.”

“Forgive me.”

“There is no offense in looking.”

Eames’ brow rose as he peered up at Arthur with his chin down, his voice playful. “Nor touching, I hope?” He smirked and put his sketching aside when Arthur took several steps towards him.

Arthur startled when Eames reached for his knee and sent him crashing down, spilling his wine over his chest and back.

Eames was quick to lap the drink from Arthur’s skin, kissing and nipping gently as he went along, ignoring Arthur’s glare.

Arthur sighed, lying on his back with Eames sitting next to him. He crossed his arms. “Eames,” he warned, but it fell on deaf ears when Eames poured a drop of wine from the bottle over Arthur’s nipple before lapping it up. “You promised me,” he panted, his back arching.

“I swore not to paint on you again. This is different. Much easier to clean,” Eames explained, uncrossing Arthur’s arms. He poured a trail down Arthur’s stomach and was quick to suck up the wine pooled in his navel.

Arthur watched Eames pour another trickle over his groin, wetting his pubic hair, and down his thigh before Eames’ tongue chased after it. He sat up and plucked the bottle from Eames’ hands.

Eames eagerly opened his mouth when Arthur pressed his thumb to his lips. He moaned as Arthur drank the wine he poured over Eames’ tongue. 

He leaned his back against the couch and pulled Arthur to sit between his legs. He kissed the back of Arthur’s neck, his arms squeezing his waist.

Arthur rested his head on Eames’ shoulder, rubbing Eames’ thigh. Sighing, he tilted his head to give Eames more of his neck to kiss, moaning when Eames' hands dipped under his thighs and parted them.

Eames fought the urge to bite Arthur’s shoulder, seeing how hard Arthur was. His fingertips circled Arthur’s glans, teasing up soft gasps. His fist held Arthur’s length, gripping tight as he stroked him torturously slow.

Arthur’s face was turned away, his cheeks pink as he panted, his nails digging into Eames’ thighs.

Eames smiled against his neck. “Take a look at what I spy in the corner, caro mio.”

There was a small, oval-shaped mirror in a pile of discarded sheets and pots in the corner. They could see themselves, Eames’ hand on Arthur’s cock, his legs drawn up and spread wide.

Arthur paled and quickly tried to close his legs, but Eames held him. He drew his legs up as well, spreading Arthur’s further.

Arthur’s back was pillowed on Eames’ stomach, his hands gripping the sheet under Eames’ shoulders for leverage. “Eames, please. This is too... You're embarrassing me."

“Hush.” He slid down more so that he nearly lie flat on the floor. He stroked his erection against Arthur’s hole, his eyes on the mirror.

Arthur shooed away Eames’ hand when he tried to make Arthur touch himself.

“You always close your eyes and you never give yourself pleasure. I want to see you,” Eames whispered. He petted the lines on Arthur’s abdomen and teased his nipples to hardness. "And I want you to see what I see."

Arthur groaned, peeking at the mirror. He slipped his hand back under Eames’. “Show me.”

Eames grazed their twinned hand over Arthur’s cock, watching Arthur’s fingers pet his glans and shaft. 

Eames buried his face in Arthur’s neck as he listened to him moan. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Like this flesh is fevered, burning,” he responded, opening his eyes again to look down at himself and then at the mirror to see Eames.

“Not a sin.” Eames squeezed Arthur’s hand as he stroked and rubbed Arthur’s fingers over the precome forming at the slit.

Arthur huffed, breathless. “This is _definitely_ a—”

“Who would condemn you for finding pleasuring in your own body?” Carefully, Eames let go of Arthur’s hand and watched him explore, testing a lighter grip, then a harder, faster one. “And what sort of men would seek pleasure from you while denying you the right to have your own?”

“Then you do this to yourself…often?”

Eames chuckled. “When I think of you? Always.” He licked the pads of his fingers and dipped his hand under Arthur’s leg to tease his rim.

Arthur stopped abruptly. “I’m too close.” Through the mirror, he looked to Eames for more instruction. He frowned when Eames put his hand back on his cock.

“This is your body, Arthur. Use it however you like.”

Arthur did, losing more and more of his shyness, stroking himself in the tight, slow grip he seemed to like best as Eames began to finger him, his eyes on the mirror.

Eames could feel Arthur’s release building and building as Arthur’s hand moved faster, his body tensing. He called out to Eames, expecting him to make him stop before it was too late, but Eames curled his fingers, pressing over his prostate.

“Eames?”

“Keep going. Take control.”

Arthur’s come erupted over his hand and stomach. His breath caught, holding onto the arm wrapped around his waist. “Oh God! Oh God, Leonello…”

Eames ran his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “And once again, you do not burn in Hell fire.”

Arthur’s laugh bubbled up from his chest. “Not yet.”

“Nor ever. There is no doubt in my mind that your master has not already given the Church great coin to secure your soul in Heaven.”

Arthur blushed, rolling his eyes. “Then he will have to give the Church more coin.” He rose to his knees and moved to lie halfway on the couch, on his stomach, peeking at Eames over his shoulder, his ears red. 

At once missing the warmth of Arthur close to his chest, Eames followed him, covering his back, his still straining cock hot between Arthur’s thighs.

He squeezed Arthur’s hip, petting his back, kissed his shoulder, reacquainting himself with all that he’d been restricted these past weeks. Eames turned him onto his back, tasting the wine they'd shared as Arthur's hand slipped between their stomachs past his own soft cock to guide Eames in.

It was not until Eames was close to coming that Arthur remembered the mirror. Eames followed his gaze, slowing his pace to drink in the sight. Arthur had lost any trace of shame, for his eyes were not focused on the reflection of his face or Eames’, but lower to the place where their bodies were joined.

Eames groaned, nearly spilling his release in Arthur before he pulled out, his come wetting Arthur’s hole and the cushion beneath them. He buried his face in Arthur hair, letting go of his legs as he heard Arthur’s quiet chuckle.

“That was close.”

“It was,” Eames panting.

“I had been hoping that you’d let me have that this time.”

Eames’ brow shot up. “Yes?” Arthur’s blush made his heart ache. Looking up to see Arthur still staring at them in the mirror almost made his cock twitch to life again. “I’ve utterly corrupted you.”

Arthur laughed, covering his face. “Yes, Leonello, you have.” He stroked Eames cheeks, still smiling. “I’m glad that you did.”

 

They were both dressed and sitting at the top of the steps with their lips locked again when Arthur’s drunken chaperone stumbled in from the street.

Arthur quickly moved over before the man looked up at them.

“I have been looking for you, little sunbeam,” the man slurred, wagging his finger from the bottom of the stairs.

Arthur stood as he and Eames snickered. “Well, you’ve found me, signore. Let’s go home so you can sleep off your condition. Good night, Master Eames.”

Eames watched him descend the stairs and guide the petite man out the door. He sighed once the doors closed. “Good night, tesorino.”

+

 

Arthur could hear his master and his cousin argue from his spot on the couch outside his office.

The two had been at each other’s throats since returning from Mass. About what, Arthur had no idea.

In the dim light of the candelabras, he was nodding off, the sleeves on his overcoat like a pillow when he folded his arms and lied down. He prayed that Borso would give him leave to go to his room at such a late hour, but on and on, the men in the office argued. Arthur sat in the parlor, forgotten.

He wondered what Eames was doing. They had not seen another in two days, and in those two days, Arthur had been only…tired, slow to rise from his bed. His dreams were his only comfort in the cold, quiet palazzo.

He startled awake when the doors swung open. He sat up quickly, rubbing his face and yawning.

Borso fumed as he walked past Arthur into the corridor with his cousin. “I have had enough of this, Lorenzo. Tomorrow, I am holding a feast here. If you wish to put the Borgia Spaniard’s money in our bank, fine. Bring him with your company tomorrow. Let me judge his worth with my own eyes.”

Lorenzo glanced at Arthur and frowned, but made no comment about his presence. “Tomorrow, then, Borso. And I look forward to seeing your wife here as well,” Lorenzo sneered, laughing when Borso’s frown turned vicious. “She’s so seldom in the city, I almost forget that you are married. Good night, cousin.”

Arthur watched the man storm off with a guard. He sighed quietly, steeling himself for Borso’s anger.

Borso stood in front of him, his arms crossed. “Did you have supper in my absence?”

The servants never put food on any table that Borso himself would not be there for. “No, signore. May we eat together now?”

“My kin’s presence puts my stomach off of foods. And his arrogance has my head aching.”

Arthur’s stomach growled. “You wish to…sleep then?”

“No.” He turned, knowing that Arthur dutifully followed.

They rounded the corner to one of the shorter corridors with Eames’ frescos of Greek myths just as three servants precariously carried a statue out of one of the libraries for the feast preparations. 

To Arthur's horror, one boy slipped, sending the other boys scrambling under the sculpture's weight until they dropped it. He jumped at the loud bang and clatter as the marble nymph broke into large chunks on the floor.

The servants paled as one boy touched the small dent in the middle of the fresco. The cracked pieces fell away to join the mess on the floor.

Arthur quickly backed away from his master before the man flew into a rage.

Borso stormed towards the boy and punched him hard enough to send him to the floor. He pummeled the boy who'd first lost his balance, and grabbed the third by his collar, intent to beat him as well, but Arthur grabbed his arm.

He was terrified, but his presence slowed the man down. “Master, please, it was a mistake! It can be fixed!”

Borso pushed him down and rounded on the boy again, shaking in his anger. “Go now to the painter. If this wall is not fixed by tomorrow morning, I will kill all three of you.” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths as the boy stumbled away.

His expression was pained when he looked at Arthur’s heap. “Forgive me, sparrow. Their behavior was utterly unacceptable.”

Arthur swallowed and ignored the blood on Borso’s hands when he was helped from the floor. He dusted off his clothes, shaking. “I… I understand, master. You did…what you had to. You’re tired… Please…let me…take you to bed.”

Borso visibly relaxed. He patted Arthur’s cheek. “A splendid idea. Nothing else can be done here, save for a miracle from Master Eames.”

“We will certainly pray for one, master.” Arthur glanced back when Borso led him forward, as the battered boys did their best to collect the broken marble.  

+

 

Arthur waited as he always did to leave once Borso fell asleep. He crept from the massive bed and slipped back into his nightgown and robe, taking one of the candles into the corridor.

The walk alone always had him on edge. Guards lined every doorway and yet he still hurried, more so tonight, as his biggest fear was Borso waking and calling him back.

He slowed, returning to the corridor with the damaged fresco. The hall was brightly lit, which could only mean one thing.

Surrounded by mixing jars, tiny brushes and other tools, Eames wiped a spot wet plaster from his chin, smearing more of it in his short beard in the process. He yawned.

Even in his sleepy, half-drunk dishevelment, he was beautiful. Arthur could watch the solitary man scowl and work grumpily all night.

“Arthur?” Eames nearly fell from the small stepladder as he tried to fix his rumpled clothes. He looked around them. They were alone.

Arthur licked his lips and swallowed. In the corner, a missed fragment of marble lay forgotten. He pulled his robe tighter around him and hurried past Eames without a word.

“Whoa, Arthur. Arthur?” Eames caught his sleeve. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Eames, you have to let go of me. We can’t risk it. Not after tonight.”

“What happened?” He petted Arthur’s cheeks, but pulled his shirt out of his trousers to clean off the little spot of paint he left behind. “You’re spooked. Did he hurt you?”

“No, no, no, but he’s certainly hurt enough people. I must go.”

“But you’re shaking.”

Arthur hated how good Eames felt holding him. He buried is face in his stubbled neck, breathing in his scent. “I just want to disappear on nights like this one. To melt into the walls and be safe as one of the painted figures in these frescos.”

Eames rubbed his arms and kissed his cold hands. 

“Why can't he be like you, Leonello? You have a heart. He has nothing but possessions.” He sighed, relaxing into Eames’ touch until he caught himself. “I should go.”

“Could you stay just a moment longer? I missed you. I know you missed me too. No one else is here. I could put out a few of the candles.”

“But how will you see to work?”

Eames playfully looped his fingers in Arthur’s thin nightgown, pulling it up his hips slowly. “Is that a yes?”

Arthur looked down, seeing his hem rise higher and higher. He glared up at Eames through his lashes. “You mean not to work at all.” He shook his head and glanced down the corridor. “This is madness. You know I’ve only just come from his rooms, Leonello. You know what that means.”

“Has Signore Medici left you parched again?”

Arthur shivered, feeling Eames’ rough hands on his bare hips. “He has.”

Eames pressed him to wall where the plaster had not been damaged. “Then I am required to take care of you.”

“Generous to the last breath, Leonello.”

He pressed a finger to Eames’ lips before catching the strings on Eames’ collar. He pulled him into the library across the hall, it’s normal collection of statues and relics cleared out for the next day’s feast.

“Wait,” Eames whispered. His gaze was purely predatory when he returned from the corridor with one of the lanterns, casting shadows in the dim light when he placed it on the floor beside them.

It’s light glowed up Arthur’s nightgown, making it translucent when his robe fell from his shoulders to the floor.

“You’re cold,” Eames muttered, pulling Arthur’s collar loose to bare his hard nipples.

Arthur’s knees were weak under Eames’ tongue and teeth teasing his nipples. He shook his hair back away from his neck and tilted his head aside, sighing happily when Eames’ kissed rose to his neck and jaw.

But still his heart raced. As his hands slipped between them to unlace Eames’ trousers, he kept a fierce watch on the door beside them. Pulled Eames’ shirt over his head, Arthur looked for any shadow, listening for the echo of footsteps, any sign at all that they were doomed.

“We have to hurry.” His nightgown slipped from his shoulder when he lifted it high up his stomach, holding it out of the way for their cocks to press together, their hips grinding.

Eames’s trousers were caught around his ankles, trapped by his boots, but he still spat on his cock and hoisted Arthur up, pining his back against the wall.

Arthur bit his tongue, unable to catch his groan. He was still soft and wet from Borso’s sex, but he still felt the stretch as Eames took him in long strokes, rocking him up the wall.

Eames nearly lost himself, his teeth pressed dangerously hard against Arthur’s neck. He dug bruises into Arthur’s thighs, grunting low, his voice rough as his hips moved faster.

Arthur gasped and clamped his hands over his mouth when Eames drove hard into his prostate relentlessly, pushing more and more sounds past his throat.

The sound of boots echoed down the corridor. Arthur turned, hiding against the wall as Eames covered his back. They peered out of the door as two guards walked down the adjoining hall, headed towards Borso’s office.

Arthur’s shoulder sank in relief. He clutched his heart as Eames chuckled nervously, kissing the back of his shoulders.

When the footfalls grew distant, Arthur twisted back to catch Eames’ lips, pulling Eames’ arms tighter around him.

He rested his forehead against the tapestry, rubbing his cock to hardness again as Eames pulled his hips back and pushed in. He let out a breathless moan, certain that Eames left more bruises on his skin.

Eames rocked his hips faster, pumping more of Borso's come from Arthur's body as he moved, crushing Arthur to the wall. He grabbed a hold of Arthur's thin nightgown, tangling it around his fists to keep his lower half bared for him to watch his cock slip in and out between his cheeks.

Arthur paled when Eames tore his nightgown apart. “Eames!” He hissed, watching it pool around his feet. He tried to turn around, but Eames silenced his complaint with a kiss that left Arthur dizzy.

His heart pounded, feeling his release building.

“Leonello,” he panted, guiding Eames’ hands between his legs. “I want you to…”

Eames pumped his cock quickly in one hand, the other gripping Arthur’s thigh. His hands felt coarse, rough against his fever flesh from the dried paint and plaster.

In the quiet of the dark library, Arthur blushed at the sound of Eames taking him harder, the hushed groans at the back of his ear. It pushed him over the edge. He breathed Eames’ name against the tapestry, his come soaking the finely weaved threads of gold.

“Arthur,” Eames grunted, his hands held tight in Arthur’s. “I need… to…”

“Give me,” Arthur moaned. “Give me every bit of you, Leonello.”

“Oh God.” Eames choked behind him, groaning as he shivered against Arthur’s back, his cock jerking minutely within Arthur’s flesh as he came hard. “Arthur…caro mio, tesorino. Oh, my love.”

“Yes,” Arthur sighed, panting with his cheek pressed to the tapestry. He squeezed Eames as he felt him withdrawn. He blushed at the slick between his thighs.

Eames held him close, reluctant to let him go. “Why must you leave me?”

Arthur turned in his arms, resting his head on Eames’ shoulder. He couldn’t speak. His chest felt tight.

“I never know which is better,” Eames whispered to his hair. “To have never… given in to desire and live without your love, or… to know you but never be able to fully have you?”

“Master Eames?” A voice called from down the corridor.

Eames quickly redressed, looking as pained as ever. “Come to me tomorrow if you can, Arthur. I _must_ see you again. Please.”

Arthur nodded, slipping into his robe. He picked up his tattered nightgown once Eames hurried back into the corridor to send the servant away.

When the boy left, Arthur crept out and bundled the gown into Eames’ satchel.

“He won’t be missing that?”

Arthur leaned against the wall. “I have more.”

“Of course. I always forget that you—”

Arthur kissed him deeply, pulling on Eames’ clothes and hair. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe when he stepped back. “Tomorrow. I will try for tomorrow, I promise.”

“Arthur—”

He kissed Eames again, but broke away before Eames’ arms could trap him. He picked up the little candle he’d been carrying and took a step away at the sound of more footsteps.

His eyes were still on Eames when the guard appeared.

“Will you escort me to my room, please?” When the guard turned to lead the way, Arthur touched Eames’ hand, mouthing his goodbye.

+ 

 

Several days passed before Eames could see Arthur again. He paced his studio, nervously tidying the space for what felt like the tenth time.

Arthur sat on the edge of the couch, frowning as he began to remove his cloak. "You are not yourself today."

"Your master comes to collect the portrait tomorrow."

"He does, yes. After his wife and son return to the country." Arthur stood quickly, rushing to him. He took the bowl of water Eames had been rewashing his floor with out of Eames' hands. "Look at me. Leonello, this is not the end for us. He will commission more paintings. We will have more time. We can talk and maybe see each other after dark again. It isn't much, but it's enough for me."

"I've been..." Eames took a deep breath and tried again, facing Arthur. "I have been called to Venice. To work there. Permanently. The... The patron gave me an offer I could not refuse."

The bowl broke when it hit the floor, sending water over their shoes and soaking through the sheets. 

Arthur turned away and sat down for a moment before standing again. "Oh."

"It is good news."

"It is wonderful news. I am happy for you, signore," Arthur said quietly. "So this is how it ends for us. As...sudden and quick as poison death." His gait was awkward and tense when he moved to leave.

"No, no, no. You misunderstand. I want you to come with me, Arthur. We could leave this place together and never look back."

"You're insane." Arthur turned his back, hiding his sadness behind his hand. He shook his head. "A boy like me cannot simply leave a Medici. He would sooner kill me than let me go. You know that." He sighed. "So I'm losing you?"

"No. I would never accept your goodbye." Eames rushed to the massive painting and removed the sheets covering it. He stepped behind Arthur, lacing their fingers together. "Leave with me," he whispered to Arthur's ear. "Be forever my muse, my pupil, and my lover. Please."

Eames guided him by his shoulders so that Arthur could see the finished image of himself as a young John the Baptist, lying in lush grass, surrounded by beautiful flowers and a lamb that slept near his legs. The sun shining from the windows casts rays of light upon the large carvas, shimmering, stunning, leaving Arthur speechless.

As Arthur stared in awe, his eyes wet, Eames whispered in his ear. "Let your face not be the only thing about you that lives on throughout time. Let your name follow you as well."

Arthur shook his head, one hand over his heart and the other over his mouth. "But... I have no name. I am... only Arthur. Just a boy...with that face," he wept, pointing at the painting. 

Eames wrapped his arms around him. "Then take my name. Be Arthur Leonello Eames, and in the morning when your master sends you here, we'll leave. What say you?"

Arthur closed his eyes and let his hands rest over Eames'. "Yes." 

 

++

+

 

**End.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> For questions, inspiration tags, and more for this fic and others, visit grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com


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